


the light of the future, the sparks of today

by thundercracker



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Pronouns, Gen, Noncanon Pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6074800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundercracker/pseuds/thundercracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyclonus and Tailgate meet Sparky after the events of the Holiday Special and MTMTE #49.</p><p>It had been such a long time since Cyclonus had seen a sparkling. Six million years later, the warrior could see hope in the optic of something that was not Cybertronian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the light of the future, the sparks of today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leafinsect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafinsect/gifts).



> This takes place approximately between #49 and #50, since the Holiday Special takes place at some unspecified point after #48.  
> This was written from Xenopolitics's prompt "tg and cyc meeting sparky (post-holiday issue) (shes been contained but shapeshifts just bc)" 
> 
> Cyclonus and Whirl's pronouns in this fic are she/her/hers. ("she had hope in her optics and regret in her faceplates.")  
> Tailgate's pronouns are cie/cer/cers. ("cer servos were too small but strong in the other's; cie looked up, visor dimmed with concern and tenderness.")

“I’m telling you, Cyclonus,” Tailgate pressed a final time, insistent, “it was just a minor glitch.” The two bots strode casually into the medibay, the minibot not quite irritated that Cyclonus had offered to escort cer there. Cie gazed ahead as cer partner scanned the room and found no trace of the resident medic. “If I can survive that—that _panic attack—_ ”

Tailgate realized with small surprise that the other had stopped walking just before her steps resumed, now moving with determination towards a glass chamber of amber liquid. Cie followed. Inside seemed to be something alive that stirred unknown feelings within the Autobot, as if reminder of something long forgotten; cie didn’t recognize it, but the pale, cylindrical body and too-large head floating within the liquid seemed strangely familiar.

“Cyclonus?”

Cie was sure the other knew what it was by the way she stared. When the two had settled into their places before the chamber, Tailgate looked up and could see the reverence in Cyclonus’s very being. Her lip plates longingly parted, her optics the specific shade cie had come to recognize as bittersweet nostalgia; her shoulder pauldrons sunk in a moment of openness, and one claw gently rested its talons against her chest plating. Tenderly, slowly, she pressed her free servo to the glass.

“Tailgate,” Cyclonus said softly, “do you recognize what this is?”

The smaller bot, realizing cie had been observing the other instead of the contents of the container, quickly averted cer gaze towards the small lifeform.  

“Should I?” cie asked, already guessing the answer. “It seems familiar.”

“You wouldn’t remember,” the mech replied. Regret tinged her voice; a servo rubbed slow circles into the chamber’s glass. “This is a protoform. The first I have seen in a very, very long time.”

The revelation made Tailgate’s optics widen, and for the first time cie took in every detail about what cie now knew to be an infant. If cie focused and pressed cer servo close, cie found, cie could feel gentle signals and pulses from her declaring to _be_ a “her,” to be alive, to be a survivor and a miracle. She was still small, her body too small for her head and unshapen; claws had recently sprouted, it seemed, and she seemed to be in a deep recharge. Her single yellow optic was closed in gentle slumber.

The minibot’s optics grazed over the intricate lines and seams of what would likely become a chassis or cockpit, the simple beauty of new life making each line seem a miracle in itself.

“But I thought—” Tailgate started, then thought the _how_ of this very existence was too great. “But why is she _here_ on the _Lost Light_?” Cir eyes read the warning label on the chamber, and cir spark sunk. “And in quarantine?”

Cyclonus shook her head sadly. “If only I knew.”

For a while, she sunk into silence.

“It has been such a long time,” she noted again, sorrowful and awestruck. A low, longing keen escaped her, and she retracted the servo on the glass only to cover her expression. The clawtips on her chest balled into a fist. “Not since Rivets Field, before the Ark.”

Tailgate gazed at cer pedes.

“Whatever’s wrong with her,” started the bot, “Lotty will help her. She’s going to be alright.” Cie gazed up at the other. Optics met in understanding.

“Let us hope so.”

As the two stood silent, the being in the amber liquid slowly blinked open her lone optic and adjusted to the flood of light in the room. Tailgate guessed that she had entered recharge in the dark from the focusing and refocusing of her senses. Bubbles floated away from her.

“She is attempting to chirr,” explained Cyclonus. Her voice was strained. “The liquid prevents it.”

Tailgate pressed cer helm to the cylinder and gasped. “I can hear her clicking!”

Cie _also_ heard the sharp intake of air from the other, pained and yearning and _choked_ , and an aching feeling spread in cer spark as cir elder knelt to press her helm against it as well.

Tailgate pretended not to hear the barely audible clicking and whirring and keens.

“Primus bless you, child,” the warrior muttered to the glass. “Primus bless and protect you, born into this world at this time.” Her voice grew as she pulled back and stood again; the other could recognize words and phrases and emotions as she switched to Old Cybertronian, blessings and hopes and praises. The Autobot gently touched her servo when it seemed she had finished and felt assured when she took cer servo in hers.

“She’s going to get to live in a world where she doesn’t have to fight,” the bot assured. “On a ship where everybot cares about her.”

The servo around cers squeezed in silent acknowledgement.

And then the medibay doors opened behind them to the sound of voices.

“The subspace hatch is probably the best option,” Velocity was saying.

“Well, there’s no _rush,_ is there?” questioned Whirl. There was a hint of something in her voice, either impatience or genuine emotion. Nothing _good_. “Nothing wrong with keeping them around until the next trip planetside, is there?”

Cyclonus’s grip stiffened with her frame and the newcomers seemed to notice the two, who turned toward them out of courtesy.

“So you two have met Sparky, huh?” Whirl chirped with a cheery expression on her helm. It made two sparks sink. _Whirl_ was involved with the protoform? “They’re a real trooper, you know. Tough stuff.”

Cyclonus seemed genuinely offended before Velocity stepped in.

“Scraplets _are_ notoriously hard to get rid of,” she commented. “Even when they take shape.” The Camien seemed perfectly neutral about this, if not slightly tired of Whirl's analysis of "Sparky". The suitemates, not so much.

“Scraplets?” the minbot repeated with dismay. “She’s—they’re scraplets?”

Whirl whirred in happy confirmation. “And damn well good at what they do. Clever little monsters.”

“That’s—” Tailgate blurted, and suddenly took in cer partner’s discomfort and solemn speechlessness. “Okay, I _definitely_ need to get the story behind that later, but I really need to refuel now,” cie lied. “So we’ll see you later, I guess.”

A round of goodbyes and finally the tall ancient bot’s discomfort melted into apprehension, then resignation, then spark-deep sorrow.

 

Later, in the solitude of their habsuite, an ancient mech would wail even more ancient songs of mourning for those who did not exist, for those whose lives were stolen before they existed.

“I’m sure there are other protoforms out there,” a pale white bot would say later, servo in servo with another, leaning gently towards cer suitemate on the edge of a berth in their shared room. Hope and apology would shade cer optics as cie gazed up at her. “I know what you said back before Luna-I, but I think after all we’ve been through—hope isn’t a lie. Hope can’t be a lie after all this.”

 

Now, in the present, a minibot walked solemnly alongside a taller mech, both too old for this world. And the minibot said, “I’m sorry.”

And the taller mech replied, “It has been so long.”

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 3am and it was supposed to be cute gay fluff but it is not. Apology


End file.
